


My father's son

by SparrowFlight246



Series: My father's son [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hospitals, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Rhodey is the one level headed person as usual, Stabbing, but shh they don't know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowFlight246/pseuds/SparrowFlight246
Summary: When a mission goes wrong, Tony donates blood to Peter, because he can spare a pint and the stabbed kid quite obviously needs it more than he does.It turns out they have more in common than just type A positive blood. Tony finds himself desperately trying to remember where he was, what he was doing, (whohe was doing) sixteen, seventeen years ago.Suddenly, he knows why Peter has always looked so familiar to him.





	My father's son

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! New concept, I'm excited to see what you guys think of it. Title from My Father's Son by the Tenors.
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for reading!! <3

The thing about knives is, for as crude and barbaric as they are compared to more the recently innovated, far more devastating weapons of the here-and-now 21st century, they’re kind of terrifyingly dangerous when someone’s trying to stab you with one. 

Tony is suddenly intimately aware of that. 

Peter is too, only times about three hundred, because, well, spandex. 

“You know, if you think about it, I could probably just thwip the knife away from him and call it a day, right? Like, this doesn’t have to be all that complicated and drawn out, and as long as I don’t get stabbed or anything-”

“Actually, how about we _don’t_ do that, kid.”

“Just an idea, Mr. Stark.”

They’re hurrying to the scene currently unfolding just outside of a tiny, ridiculously overpriced souvenir shop, tucked away in a relatively quiet corner of the city a good few blocks away from anything even in the area code of important. These handful of sleepy streets have a notoriously dull reputation, which is exactly why they’re in the area. It’s the kind of place where nothing really happens and no one really visits, and the only people around are typically the most map-blind of people who wander hopelessly far from their tour course, the handful of bumbling folks who are unfortunate enough to live around here, and a billionaire and his camera shy sidekick looking for a cup of coffee and somewhere quiet to talk suits for an hour or two on a cloudy Saturday morning.

However, today seems to be the day the incredibly boring area is finally seeing some action, because there’s a guy wandering around here who’s higher than a kite and currently waving around a big ass kitchen knife at innocent passerby.

Tony’s pretty sure that dull reputation is officially circling the drain right about now. 

So, Peter and Tony had consecutively decided they best intervene before some poor tourist gets stabbed, even if their coffee date has to be temporarily postponed because of it. It’s only seconds after they skid to a halt at the beginning of the action that they’re noticed.

“OH MY GOD, THE _AVENGERS ARE HERE!”_

Peter waves in greeting with some witty quip, but Tony’s more focused on the action at hand, taking in the situation at a glance. There’s the druggie, of course, stumbling around with the distant cousin of the sword Arthur pulled from the stone clenched in his hand, but there’s also a crowd gathering around him, and they seem to have pretty efficiently cornered him against the wall of the souvenir shop. Tony has long held some serious concerns for the self-preservation instincts of New Yorkers, but today he’s at least mildly glad for them. They’ll make his and Peter’s job easier, considering their aggressive herding tendencies and fierce determination when it comes to recording even the most slightly interesting things with their smartphones held out in front of them like weapons, and they’ll help keep the guy in one relative place.

Because, really, stoners are kind of a tough situation to handle. They’re violent and dangerous, but they also aren’t usually in the right headspace to be making responsible decisions, and rarely realize the consequences of their actions until there’s a blade buried to the hilt in someone’s chest or a bullet through an opponent’s head. So, because of that, Tony would rather take it slow at first and at least try to handle this somewhat peacefully before pulling out the physical violence. With any luck, there won’t be any opportunity for impalement in the meantime. 

But then the druggie lunges at an unfortunately nearby man who got a little too enthusiastic with his filming ambitions, and Tony realizes this might be a little more serious than he originally thought.

“Okay, Mr. Stark, I don’t think this guy is messing around anymore,” Peter reports, his voice cracking in alarm as he darts forward to usher the crowd back, at the same time making a beeline for the guy cradling his now bleeding hand to his chest. 

Now that there’s blood in the picture and the guy has actually attempted to slash somebody Freddy Krueger style, the situation has escalated quickly, and holds a hell of a lot of potential to escalate even further in these next few minutes. The druggie is just stumbling around near the wall of the souvenir shop now, his knife tight in his grip and looking vaguely pissed off, while the owner of said souvenir shop stands just inside the door with her nose practically pressed up against the glass, and the surrounding crowd is just growing more anxious still. 

Basically, the situation just took a nosedive from admittedly crappy to flat out shitty. Tony wants coffee.

“Believe it or not, I think I might have figured that out for myself, kid,” Tony returns dryly as Peter fusses over the stabbed guy’s hand, carefully webbing it up to stop the bleeding. The guy seems kind of dazed, looking from Peter to his stabbed hand repeatedly with a stunned expression, casting a bewildered look Tony’s way every once in a while for good measure. Peter looks more than a little worried.

“Plan?” he asks mildly as he finishes with the guy’s hand, glancing over with an expression suggesting he really hopes Tony has a plan. 

“Working on it.”

Peter, bless his obedient heart, just nods and goes back to doing his best to keep the crowd away from the action. At least seven new smartphones have popped up since the two of them arrived, and the kid’s got his hands full.

There’s a few ways they could handle this. Physical force would probably the easiest and fastest way, but they’d run the risk of hurting a civilian, and the farther they can take this without blasting anyone to incineration the better. However, talking him off the ledge, though the more peaceful option, happens to sound a little too peace love and shitting rainbows for Tony’s taste.

He settles on the in between. Peter’s plan from the beginning suddenly isn’t sounding as ridiculous anymore.

“Alright, buddy, time to drop the knife,” Tony calls calmly, his voice rising, directed towards the druggie. The crowd makes way for him when he walks up to the action, reforming into their vaguely semi-circle shape once he’s through. He sees one person get a rushed selfie with him out of the corner of his eyes as he passes. “Listen, whatever you’re looking for, you’re not gonna find it here. That knife definitely isn’t helping your case either.”

Tony honestly isn’t sure if the guy is even processing anything he’s saying, he seems so far gone, but something seems to focus in his eyes even still at being addressed. He swings his head Tony’s way, blinking, and the knife swings with him, which kind of makes Tony’s heart skip a beat. “My dealer… mm, my dealer, he told me no,” he tells him in a slurred voice, his grip loosening slightly on the knife. His eyes are dazed.

Tony throws a brief glance Peter’s way, but the kid is still keeping the crowd back, making sure they’re safely out of harm’s way. He just needs to stall, then, distract the guy until he can catch Peter’s attention without having to shout his plans for all the world to hear. And if he can talk the guy into putting down the blade in the meantime, then that’s even better, even if he knows way too well that the chances of that happening are basically zilch. “Your dealer’s not here,” he says, voice placating. “None of these people have anything to do with this. Drop the knife, and we’ll get you help.”

“Uhhhhh, I don’ know,” the guy grumbles. The knife just about hangs in his grip now, and Tony wonders how much he really took to get in such a state as this. The guy looks like he’s going to say more, but then gets distracted by a crack in the wall of the souvenir shop, and spends the next few minutes staring at that instead with his knife looking seconds away from dropping on its own accord.

Peter chooses that moment to glance over, still facing the crowd he continues to press back, keeping a safe distance between them and the action. Tony pins him with a purposeful look and waits for him to figure out that he’s trying to communicate a plan here. Seriously, for as smart as the kid is, he’s incredibly oblivious at times.

Once he does catch on, Tony makes a subtle thwipping motion with his right hand, making sure Peter can see what he’s doing. He can tell Peter’s face lights up even through the mask, and he starts nodding enthusiastically in confirmation. They’ll put Peter’ original idea into action, with Peter getting the knife while Tony continues to distract. 

Now, Tony just has to keep this dude’s attention redirected long enough to give Peter even half a chance to get the blade away without getting a knife to the vital organs in return. Easy.

“I know you’re upset,” Tony says to the druggie, one eye still on Peter as the kid edges closer to the guy, trying to get a better angle to web the blade away. He keeps himself in front of the onlookers as he goes, shielding them the best he can while he continues to advance, red and blue creeping along the crowd. “Believe me, I get what that’s like. But these people don’t deserve to be hurt because of it. So just put down the knife, and it’ll all be okay.”

The druggie squints slightly, looking like he’s trying to see the fault in this idea. But then his expression seems to tighten slightly, just a touch of awareness coming back to his eyes. His grip on the knife tightens again. “It won’,” he says, words muddled but distinct enough to recognize. He starts to look around at the crowd, as if the onlookers might be a good stabbing substitute since the dealer himself isn’t around to impale, and his hand flexes almost imperceptibly around the handle of the blade. Tony’s alarm spikes. “It won’ be okay. I need- I need _revenge.”_

“No, no you don’t,” Tony says quickly, wishing Peter would hurry up before this got even worse. “Just drop the knife. I promise, it will all be better if you just drop the knife.” 

“It won’!” the guy shouts abruptly, his expression suddenly screwed up in anger, and Tony knows this is heading south fast.

“Spidey!”

Peter’s still a good few feet away from the best spot to thwip the knife, but the alarm in Tony’s voice and the growing aggression in the druggie’s is enough to tell him that it’s down to crunch time, and that it doesn’t really matter where he’s at anymore. He throws himself the rest of the way around the guy and shoots a web within the same movement, nearly rolling back to his feet and tugging for all he’s worth to get the weapon away from the guy _now._

It’s only when the guy is dragged along with the knife that Tony and Peter both realize that the web has also stuck to the druggie’s hand where it’s clenched around the weapon, and both stoner and blade are being wrenched along to Peter before he can do anything to stop it. Tony has a split second for his stomach to drop before Peter is basically chest to chest with a very angry, very high man with a very big knife clenched at the ready.

Before Tony can do more than aim his blaster, Peter has a ten inch, serrated blade buried in his abdomen.

And before Tony can even think, the knife is ripped back out, Peter is falling to his knees, and he’s blasting the guy to the ground. The knife, with the silver blade stained crimson with Peter’s blood, clatters onto the sidewalk. 

Later on, when he takes the time to logically think through the situation, Tony’ll be reluctantly glad that the blaster was already set on a relatively low-intensity beam. Again, the guy is probably too high off his ass to think in a way past _angry-revenge-stabby-stab,_ and besides, if Tony had killed him, then he wouldn’t be able to serve out the life-ruining prison sentence he deserves for trying to shish kabob the kid. Death would be too easy. But, at the moment, he wants the guy absolutely _incinerated,_ and he hates with every fiber of his being that all that comes of the blast is a hoarse yell.

The beam is enough, however, to knock the guy on his ass and do enough damage to keep him there. Even hunched over his newfound stab wound, Peter shoots a feeble yet well-aimed web at him as well for good measure, securing him to the sidewalk. The guy moans, probably in pain, and Peter winces along with him. “Sorry, Mr. Addict,” he says breathlessly, “but you kind of impaled me.” The kid grimaces as he eases his way into a sitting position, letting out a slow, measured breath, his hand pressed tight to the wound. The blood is already soaking through his suit. “You sorta deserve that.”

Tony hurriedly pushes his way over the kid once the guy is officially restrained, stepping over the abandoned knife lying on the sidewalk a few feet away as he goes. The onlookers still surrounding them seemed horrified to see Spider-Man, indestructible vigilante and mascot of the city, injured, but right now, Tony is more worried about Peter Parker, stupidly self-sacrificing nerd with a tendency to throw himself head-first into dangerous situations. Knife wounds can be dangerous. That one looks particularly bad.

When Tony breaches the crowd forming a loose, anxious circle around him, Peter looks up from where he’s sitting on the dirty city concrete. “Whoops,” he offers sheepishly with a breathless, strained chuckle, trying to make light of the situation, but Tony can see how badly his hands are shaking.

“Geez, kid,” Tony sighs, dropping down on one knee beside Peter, “how many times do I have to tell you that trying to make friends with a knife-wielding stoner is a bad idea?”

“At least it wasn’t an intentional thing this time,” Peter returns, but the humor in his voice is beginning to become forced, and Tony knows that the wound is more serious than the kid is trying to let on. 

Tony glances up at the people still gathered around them, gesturing vaguely in a shooing motion. “Alright, show’s over, folks. Stick around for the cops, make sure that guy doesn’t go anywhere, and then go home.” He looks around, finds the stabbed guy in the crowd, and points in his general direction. “That goes for all except for you, stabbed guy. I’d suggest heading to the ER or waiting for the ambulance instead.”

Stabbed guy nods shakily, his injured hand white and bulky with the webbing still wrapped around it. “Got it,” he says distantly, and someone starts to guide him away. The rest of the onlookers start to disperse, the shop owner finally venturing out of the store as a few brave souls station themselves around the groaning druggie to make sure he stays firmly stuck to the sidewalk. One guy stands over the knife with his arms crossed over his chest like a war-hardened cop in some old crime movie. 

With the situation finally seeming under control, Tony turns back to Peter, taking in the blood staining the suit and the way Peter looks about three seconds from passing about. “Okay, let me see that,” he says firmly, already reaching to move Peter’s hands out of the way from where they’re currently held tight over his stomach. “I refuse to let you end up like Dobby, so we’re gonna see what we need to do to fix you, and get you help before you bleed out because of a butter knife. That’d be a shittily underwhelming way to die.” 

Peter forces a weak laugh, the breathy exhalation sounding like it hurts him, but allows Tony to access the wound. Just by looking at the sheer volume of blood slowly saturating the area around the puncture, Tony can tell that this is a bad one, and the vitals Friday has displayed in the corner of his vision supports this conclusion, along with notes of internal bleeding on top of the external. Tentatively, he presses his metal fingertips to the laceration. The stifled sound of pain that escapes Peter as a result is instantly enough to make him regret it. 

“Okay, we’re gonna stabilize this, and then get you back to the compound,” Tony says slowly, because having a plan of action makes him feel slightly more in control and he hopes the same goes for Peter. “Can you web yourself up?”

Peter hesitates. “Um, technically, yeah, but I don’t know how well aimed it’ll be,” he admits, and Tony abruptly remembers how badly the kid’s hands are currently shaking. 

Sighing, Tony takes Peter’s wrist and gently manipulates it so that his web shooter is aimed at the wound. “Shoot,” he tells him, and Peter does, hissing through his teeth as the web fluid hits the puncture. That’ll help stem the bleeding, and hopefully keep Peter stable on the way back to the tower. However, even as the fluid covers the wound and hardens, it’s white surface is already becoming stained with red, and blood spills over it’s bounds within a few seconds.

Peter glances up at Tony, looking stricken, and Tony knows that the web fluid has never failed like this before, not this quickly. “Keep pressure on that,” he tells him grimly, thinking fast and knowing they’ve got to get Peter to help soon if he keeps bleeding like this. “Let’s get out of here.”

He slips his arms under Peter’s shoulders and knees as the kid returns his hands to his stomach, the gloves of his suit already stained through with blood. Tony does his best to avoid jostling him too much as he stands, but Peter still has to smother a sound of pain, and Tony’s heart clenches. Peter’s vitals are still running in the corner of Tony’s vision, and considering the way the kid’s heartbeat is gradually climbing as his blood pressure is continuously dropping, he knows they need to get Peter back to the medbay as soon as they can. 

So he lifts off, the kid safely in his arms, and starts flying in the direction of the compound. He can see the blinking lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the shop as they leave, and he knows that the druggie-stabbing-knife situation is handled.

Now, they’ve just got to handle the bleeding-Peter-stabbed-oh-shit situation, and then their Saturday will be fully back on track.

“FRIDAY?” he says as they fly.

“Yes, boss?”

“Make sure the medbay is ready for us when we get there.” 

The command is purposefully vague, not getting into all that he means by it. He pointedly doesn’t mention the surgeons, anesthesiologist, OR, or any of the other things he’s sure Peter will be needing, but he knows they’ll all be there waiting for them when they arrive anyway. FRIDAY is an intelligent program, she’ll get what he’s saying both by the edge in his voice and what those vitals mean. There’s no need to freak out Peter further by saying it all aloud. 

Unfortunately, Peter’s also an intelligent kid, and probably understands exactly what Tony is meaning anyway.

FRIDAY pauses for a moment, then says, “Of course, boss.” In the upper right corner of his vision, a notification pops up, telling Tony that there’s an operating team currently being prepared in the medbay, and that they’ll be ready to take Peter into surgery when they arrive. Tony makes a mental note to thank FRIDAY profusely later.

Peter’s head lolls against Tony’s shoulder, reminding him that the kid is still suffering over here. He’s weak and limp in Tony’s arms, and his blood drips onto the metal of the suit, painting the red and gold a shiny crimson. “Mr. Stark?” he asks, voice soft, distant, and god, he sounds so young.

“Yeah, kid.”

“This is kind of bad, isn’t it?”

Tony tenses, and he’s abruptly glad that Peter can’t see his expression through the helmet of his suit. _Yes,_ he wants to say. _Yes, because you’re bleeding out. Yes, because you’re going into hypovolemic shock, and, news flash, that’s not good. Yes, because I let you get hurt, and damn it, we were just supposed to get coffee this morning, not have you get stabbed._

“Maybe a little,” he finally admits, keeping his voice steady.

Peter hums, as if that’s a reasonable answer. “I figured.”

***

When they land at the compound, Tony wastes no time hurrying them to the medbay. Peter has long gone quiet, and although Friday’s silent reports running in the corner of Tony’s vision say he’s still conscious, he’s just barely aware. His breathing is rapid and shallow, his blood pressure plummeting while his heart races, and Tony knows they’re running out of time.

When they burst into the medbay, there’s a team already waiting with a gurney.

Things go quick after that. They have Peter out of Tony’s arms and on the stretcher almost immediately, and the team gets to work on the kid, recording vitals and getting the suit off of him and starting IVs in his arms and hands, hooking him up to monitors stationed nearby and overall just prepping him from surgery. Peter just lays there on the gurney and lets it all happen, limp as a ragdoll. According to Friday’s continued reports, the kid’s on the brink of unconsciousness.

Tony hovers at the edges of the crowd of medical professionals, feeling terribly out of place but refusing to just stand in the corner and leave the kid alone with a bunch of strangers fussing over him. So he stays as close to the gurney as they let him, his helmet retracted back into the body of the armor, and keeps his illusion of control over the situation as close as he can for as long as he can, regardless of how useless he is at the moment.

But then someone makes the mistake of reaching for the Spider-Man mask before he truly is completely out, and Peter makes an abrupt and somewhat violent return to full consciousness with a gasp and a cut off sound of pain. The kid jerks into action, Tony lunges to keep him down before the medical staff can do more than blink, and suddenly, Tony’s finds himself useful again.

“Woah, hey!” he yells as he catches Peter’s flailing arms at the wrists, keeping him from hitting an orderly as Peter instinctively tries to fight off whoever’s grabbing at his mask. The kid’s gasping now, his pain from the sudden motions clear in every breath he takes, the blood loss and drugs they’re giving him confusing him and leaving him disoriented and upset. “Kid, Peter, stop. It’s just me, calm down.”

Tony uses the kid’s incredible weakness to his advantage, one hand keeping him relatively still on the gurney as the other tugs off the mask. Peter is left blinking owlishly in the glaring lights with his wrists trapped against his chest, hair disheveled and face drained of almost all color. His breathing heaves, the confusion and fear clear in his expression. “Mr. Stark?” he says breathlessly, and his voice is so weak and scared it makes Tony’s heart clench. Peter stills on the gurney, but he’s wound tight as a spring, disoriented and unsure of what’s going on with eyes wide and expression creased with panic. “Wh-what-”

“You got stabbed,” Tony reminds him bluntly, cautiously relaxing his hold but not taking his hands away yet. “Remember? We just got you to med bay, and these nice people were trying to fix you up when you woke up and tried to punch one. Seriously, kid, you’ve gotta let them help.”

Peter looks like he’s about to respond when he abruptly cries out, trying to fold in on himself automatically in response to the pain. Tony releases his wrists to instead press his shoulders back down to the gurney while an orderly gets his legs, and a quick glance to Tony’s right confirms that a particularly muscular nurse just put pressure back on the wound. To the nurse’s credit, she doesn’t back off even as Peter nearly knees her in the face, caving her weight in to try and stop the bleeding. Someone in scrubs ups his dose of anesthesia by several units. “Peter!” Tony calls over the shouts of the staff, trying to redirect his attention from the pain. “C’mon, kiddo, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“God, getting stabbed _sucks,_ then,” Peter mutters breathlessly, his voice high and pained, but then he finally seems to realize what article of his suit he’s missing. His eyes widen, and his gaze snaps up to Tony’s face, expression distraught. “My mask-” he says hoarsely, but Tony just shakes his head. The kid is weakening fast under his hands as the the original sedation starts to take hold, and the blood loss fills in what the first dose was missing. The second dose of anesthesia they just administered should knock him out completely in a few minutes. 

“You don’t need it right now,” Tony tells him firmly, not leaving room for negotiation. “These guys are safe. They’re not gonna spill your identity, I promise.”

“We need to get him into surgery,” a surgeon tells Tony in a low voice, and Tony nods briefly in acknowledgement. Someone fastens an oxygen mask over Peter’s mouth and nose as a nurse pushes another dose of something through his IV cannula (Tony is always freaked out by the sheer volume of drugs they have to give Peter to knock him out or even take the edge off, but he’d rather have the kid even higher than the guy who stabbed him than be in pain) and suddenly, Tony realizes the kid is on the verge of tears.

Tony has just about enough time for his expression to crumple in sympathy before the kid’s crying in earnest, because he’s scared, because he’s hurting, because everything is probably confusing to an overwhelmed teenager with a stab wound and heavy, disorienting drugs circulating through his system. They start wheeling Peter back towards the OR, and Tony follows along at a jog to keep up, not removing his hands on Peter’s shoulders as a precaution but without any of the strength or intensity as before.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says weakly, and his voice almost a whimper, muffled by the oxygen mask. He’s fading fast, each blink growing longer, but he’s fighting the lull of the drugs, trying to stay awake for as long as he can manage. His hand grapples clumsily at Tony’s wrist.

“I’m here, kid,” Tony says instantly, voice soft. “I’m right here. Go to sleep, Peter. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

By the time they hit the doors of the OR, Peter’s out, and Tony knows he’s got to let him go. 

They wheel him in, the doors close behind them, and Tony is left alone.

***

Tony gets out of the armor, and waits out the surgery in the wrinkled suit and tie he was wearing earlier for his coffee date with Peter.

When Rhodey gets there, the first thing he does it make Tony go change into jeans and a t-shirt. 

By the time Tony gets back, Rhodey’s set up camp in the mostly empty general medbay. It’s nearly abandoned, considering Peter’s the only injured Avenger at the moment, and Rhodey’s taken full advantage of it. He brought blankets and food and coffee, and he has it all spread out across one of the hospital beds like some kind of impromptu picnic. He sits Tony down right in the middle of it, presses a mug into one hand and a sandwich into the other with wordless intensity, and tells him it’s going to be okay, his expression firm and no-nonsense.

Tony thinks he might kind of love Rhodey in that moment.

***

When they tell them that Peter needs blood, Tony donates as much as they’ll let him, and then pushes for them to take more. When they refuse, Rhodey tows him away and tells him to just be grateful that they’re both A positive. Rhodey, who’s AB, is apparently kind of bitter that he can’t donate too and help in any way he can. Tony briefly teases him about warming up to Peter. Rhodey denies it vehemently.

After being flat out denied to give more blood, Tony resignedly chugs the cup of crappy juice they give him and start researching the specifics of how blood transfusions work, while Rhodey watches over his shoulder and offers occasional, dry commentary on the credibility of the sites Tony’s using. Tony waves his blunt concerns off, they get into an argument that’s more purposely over dramatic, soap-opera level reactions than actual fighting, and they waste another hour or so on cat videos.

***

It’s a good few hours after Peter’s taken back that they get any kind of update, and Tony has never been gladder to see Helen Cho walk into the medbay than at that exact moment. 

She had arrived maybe halfway through their waiting period, there to use the regeneration cradle if needed or just to be backup to save Peter’s life. She’d briefly said hello to Rhodey and Tony before hurrying into the halls of the medbay, and they haven’t seen her since. 

Until now, that is.

And, honestly, when she walks into the general medbay, the relief of seeing her is short-lived. Because, instead of scrubs, she’s in jeans with her hair loose and hands clean, and she overall really doesn’t look at all like she just left surgery. Her tight expression also suggests she’s not bringing exceptionally great news, which similarly doesn’t help reassure Tony that everything’s all fine and dandy. She walks like she’s bracing herself. A decidedly bad feeling sinks into Tony’s stomach.

She still tries on a smile when she approaches the two of them, but it looks more forced than legitimate. “Tony, Colonel Rhodes,” she says in greeting, her voice mild. “How are you holding up?”

“How’s Peter?” Rhodey asks before Tony can, and the wariness in his voice confirms that he’s picking up on the same stuff that Tony is. They’re still sitting on the hospital bed they’ve claimed, empty chip bags scattered over the sheets and two cold cups of half full coffee set on the bedside table, but they both sit at attention at her appearance anyway, with more dignity than they probably deserve to have after wasting the past half an hour on Vine compilations. Distantly, Tony blames Peter for that.

“Still in surgery,” she responds, not unkindly, and Rhodey sighs in what could be relief or could be disappointment.

Tony, however, is pretty decidedly relieved. Although he really does wish these surgeons would give the kid back just a little bit quicker, something him eases slightly now that he knows Peter isn’t currently being wheeled to the morgue. But that leaves the question of what else might be wrong, and Tony suddenly isn’t feeling all that reassured anymore.

“Last I’ve heard, Peter’s stable. The surgeons are still just working on repairing the internal damage at this point,” Helen continues, and Tony gives her a nod of thanks, acknowledging the update and hopefully expressing how much he appreciates it even if his wariness persists. But then her expression shifts slightly, and she releases a breath that might be of somewhat apologetic resignation as she meets Tony’s eyes. She pushes up the sleeves of her cardigan with steady hands. “But, unfortunately, I’m actually not out here just to update you on his condition. Tony, would you mind joining me in the medlab for just a few moments? It will be easier to explain there.”

Tony glances at Rhodey, who just shrugs in response, looking as confused and clueless as Tony feels. “Is something wrong?” he asks as he looks back at Helen, but she shakes her head, a sigh escaping her. A frown begins to etch itself into his face. 

He gets up slowly, his stiff knees protesting at moving after sitting in one position for so long, and starts walking with a last, weirded out glance at Rhodey. “Alright,” he says, following her as she begins towards the back hallways, “seriously. You’re starting to freak me out a little now. What’s all this about, Helen?”

“It’s really nothing all that worrying,” she reassures, but her voice still sounds tense, and Tony knows there’s more the story than she’s claiming. She leads him further and further into the vaguely labyrinth- like expanses of the med bay, their footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. When they pass the operating room, Tony’s heart clenches, but Helen’s walking so quickly that he doesn’t have time to pause. “They called me in when they found some… interesting results from a few of the blood samples, and I just wanted to talk it over with you.”

“Do you mean blood samples as in my blood samples, or blood samples as in Peter’s blood samples, or blood samples as in some random person’s blood samples, because how high this thing is on my lengthy list of priorities kind of weighs pretty heavily on that specification.”

Helen casts a vaguely uncomfortable look his way, although she hides it behind a faint, vaguely grim smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Actually, it’s both your’s and Peter’s that I’m referring to.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question it, even if his curiosity increases slightly at the news. His hand goes automatically to the cotton ball still taped to the inside of his right elbow. 

Despite not usually coming back here, Tony starts to recognize the path to the med lab as they walk. He built it into the compound a long time ago in case anything that requires lab work happens to anyone Tony cares about, and it’s been used a surprising amount of times over the years. However, now that the compound is typically empty except for him and the roughly three people that still stick with him, no one’s used the labs or the med bay itself for a while, and when they finally reach it, it’s almost untouched from the last time Tony saw it, with impeccably neat surfaces and expensive tech spaced evenly around the lab tables like a glossy picture from some prestigious science magazine.

Except for a small lab table squeezed in the corner, that is. In that one corner of the wide room, the structured pattern is interrupted. A computer is fired up and waiting at a set spot of a lab table, with an array of tech dragged over to surround it and a cushioned chair ajar from where it’s supposed to be tucked beneath the desk, as if whoever last left it hadn’t taken the time to push it in properly but was planning on returning soon. Both the proximity of the equipment and the human influence suggest that Helen’s been working away back here for a while now. 

Tony takes in the set up at a glance as they walk in, Helen making a beeline for the corner with him following at a cautious distance. He leans his hip into the edge of the lab table once he reaches it, his hand slung casually in his jeans pocket, watching her recalibrating the computer and refreshing the data. “Okay, tell me what’s going on for real now,” he says, and although his apprehension has faded since she first walked into the med bay, he’s still not completely at ease. Something about this whole situation just doesn’t feel right. “Be honest. Is there something wrong with Peter?”

“Oh, no,” she says firmly. It’s at least slightly reassuring how certain she sounds about that. “I told you the truth, Tony. Peter’s still in surgery, and he’s stable. He should be out within the hour.” 

“Then what’s all this about our blood? You were able to use it for Peter, right?”

Helen nods, reaching forward for the computer again. “Yes, the surgeons were able to use your blood as a transfusion for Peter,” she confirms, and Tony takes his chance to lean in and study the information displayed on the computer with one steadying hand planted on the table. There’s a bunch of figures listed across the screen that Tony doesn’t fully understand, but Helen seems to get it if the way she follows his gaze and takes it in a glance has anything to say about it. She then looks back at him, her expression tentatively progressive. “But, before we were able to use it, we had to test both your blood and Peter’s to assure that you were indeed compatible.”

“Of course,” Tony says, because really, it would have been stupid not to. 

“And we had to analyze the results of said tests for any mistakes, to avoid transfusing the wrong blood type to Peter and risk his body attacking the new cells.”

“Of course,” Tony repeats, his voice growing flatter. 

“And we had to extensively analyze the results, because of Peter’s advanced immune system-”

“Helen,” he finally interrupts. If she’s just going to keep talking in circles, then he’s got better places to be, such as sitting in the empty med bay and waiting for news on Peter, who’s still the real object of interest for the day. “I get how blood transfusions work. What I don’t understand is what’s so important about your extensive analyzing of these results.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Helen says, and her eyes flicker away from Tony’s, quiet and hesitant even as her voice remains steady. She briefly looks at the computer again, as if searching for the right thing to say between the lines of data, or just reconfirming what she sees in the figures, as if she can’t believe the results but knows them to be true. “Through this testing, we noticed some other… similarities, between the samples.”

Tony’s eyes narrow, trying to see what Helen is suggesting. His arched eyebrow raises higher when she doesn’t continue, questioning and expectant. “And…?” he prompts.

Helen sighs, her left hand resting on the surface of the lab table, and she stills her gaze upon his. Even though she seems to be bracing herself, she looks confident, and Tony can tell how certain she is in what she’s saying. “We noticed similarities between the two of you that we only see between people who are closely related,” she says, the words a sigh.

Tony stares back at her, his dark eyes locked on hers. 

“Peter’s your son, Tony,” she says.

There’s about three seconds that Tony’s mind seems to just stutter to a stop, trying to make sense of the what he was just told. He stands there and stares at her, blinking, trying to rationalize and process, one hand still limply hanging in his jean pocket. For a long moment, the lab goes silent.

Then, “Yeah, no. Not possible.” 

Helen blinks, looking surprised at his blatant dismissal. “Tony, I don’t think you understand,” she tries, but he waves her off, pacing towards the computer to look at what he figures are the results of said blood tests. He studies the models and numbers, picking apart what he can comprehend and trying to find the fault in it, searching for whatever mistake that has to be there. 

“Peter is not my son,” he says, and there’s a comforting familiarity in the phrase. It’s what he’s been telling the people around him for as long as Peter’s been around and as long as people have been asking, the automatic denial he’s given every time an eyebrow raised or a question posed about their relationship. The phrase is almost mindless by this point, and it’s reassuring, because it’s true. “It would be too much of a coincidence. I found Peter through YouTube, not 23andMe, and it just doesn’t line up. Peter’s parents died in a plane crash years ago. His parents, biologically.” He looks up at Helen, his eyes intense, sure that there must have been an error in this reasoning. “I’m not his father.”

“Tony,” Helen says again, and her voice is placating now, just demeaning enough to be authoritative. To be fair, she does have a PhD in what they’re currently talking about, but the pity underlying in her tone is enough to irritate Tony even further, instead of the hint of reassurance she was likely going for. “Let me show you a different portrayal of this data, something easier to discern.” She starts clicking at the computer and typing in a code until the screen switches to a different display. Then, she steps back, gesturing towards the computer, allowing Tony to lean in and examine the new model. “These are a few example blocks of DNA sequencing, with the similarities between them highlighted for easier understanding. The sequence on the left side is yours, the middle is Peter’s, and the right is a random A positive donor for contrast.”

Tony studies the screen, taking in the highlighted figures between the left and middle columns, comparing any he finds to the column on the right, cross checking with the control variable. He searches for any similarities the machine might have missed or any mistakes it might have made, eyes flickering across the screen and mind racing to keep up with all the input, standing there and calculating for several minutes. 

Several minutes, he finds, is enough time to realize the staggering amount of similarities between the left and middle sequences, ones they definitely don’t share with the right. Tony’s throat starts to tighten.

Then Helen reaches for the computer again, and switches the screen once more to a display identical to the one Tony was just looking at, but with different figures listed in each column. “And this is the sequences of me and my daughter, who I gave birth to and I’m absolutely positive is mine, with the sequences of another random donor of our blood type for contrast,” she says, her voice careful, and lets Tony study the new data.

It only takes a glance to realize similarities between Helen’s DNA and her daughter’s are almost identical to the ones between Tony’s and Peter’s. 

Suddenly, Tony’s finding it hard to breathe. 

“Could you test it again, using fresh samples?” he asks hoarsely after a moment, and as much as he means for his voice to come out steady, even he can hear the shake leaking into his words. He clings to the possibility of there being a mistake like a drowning man clings to a raft, desperately wishing for the results to have been tampered with, the machine to have made an error, for anything to tell him that _oh, no, this is all just a giant misunderstanding. Everything’s fine now._

He knows it’s not going to come, but he’s got to try anyway.

Helen’s expression creases with something that might be pity. “Sure,” she says, sounding as if she’s doing this more to satisfy Tony than she is to actually recheck the data, but starts moving to do as he asks anyway. She retrieves a small vial of blood marked with Peter’s name from a medical fridge tucked under one of the other lab tables, and pricks Tony’s finger, the sharp pinch of pain startling but grounding. 

Armed with both samples, she then turns to a piece of equipment about the size of a coffee maker sitting next to her computer. It’s all white and silver and sleek technology, and Helen drips the blood into two openings on either side, the motion perfected by practice. “This is one of my own inventions,” she says half mindedly as she works. “It’s able to process genetic material in seconds, and can then portray the data collected in a comprehensible way. It’s what I used for the original samples as well.”

“Impressive,” Tony manages, pressing a cotton ball to his pricked finger. “How accurate do you think that thing is, then? If you can just give me an estimate.”

Helen smiles faintly when she glances Tony’s way, gentle pity still lining her expression. “It’s proven to have an 100% accuracy rate, I’m afraid,” she says, somewhat apologetically, before looking back at the equipment. “Now, I just let it process the material I just offered, and-”

The machine purrs, just loud enough to be audible, and the computer screen flickers to a clean page. The data fills the screen gradually over the next thirty seconds or so, figures appearing one by one in rapid succession, blinking into existence in two columns splitting the data in half. Once the screen is full, all the parallels between the two light up in bright yellow, pointing out every last one of the similarities littering Tony and Peter’s DNA.

The results are absolutely identical to the original samples.

Tony swallows hard, blinks once, and tries desperately to remember where he was sixteen, seventeen years ago, who he was with, what he was doing. _Who_ he was doing, if he’s completely honest with himself, even if it disgusts him to realize that he has absolutely no idea.

He doesn’t let himself think past that yet. He can’t go through the rest of what this means yet.

Distantly, he wonders if his breathing is this loud to anyone else.

Helen stands to the side and watches him worriedly for a good few minutes, and Tony just stares at the computer display, trying to process as his mind doing a strange stop-and-start thing that makes Tony feel more nauseous than anything else. Eventually, Helen reaches out a tentative hand to rest on Tony’s shoulder, warm and comforting even as the pressure stays incredibly light. “You should sit down,” she says gently, and he lets her guide him to the chair tucked beneath the lab table. He nearly collapses into it.

Another moment passes in silence, with Helen looking concerned while Tony keeps his face determinedly expressionless, not letting his thoughts show, not yet. Eventually, he says in a hoarse voice, “Could you grab Rhodey?” without looking away from the screen, as if the data might change if he stares at it for long enough.

Helen instantly excuses herself to do as he asks, leaving him alone in the lab. He stares at the results until they seem to burn themselves into his brain. He still almost doesn’t believe it, but he knows better than anyone that data doesn’t lie.

Still, he desperately doesn’t want to believe it. 

Peter is too good to have a father like him.

Peter deserves so much better than a father like him.

Tony needs a drink.

It seems like only seconds later that Helen reappears in the lab, this time with Rhodey in tow, his stride recognizable by the whirring of his leg braces and the thunk of his steps. Rhodey takes one look at Tony’s colorless face and demands to know what’s going on. 

Helen explains the situation in a soft tone and informative terms over the course of the next few minutes. She lets Rhodey study the data, ask the questions Tony should have thought to ask himself, pick apart the situation until he understands every last thing there is to know. Tony doesn’t say anything as they talk, glancing between the two of them from time to time to prove that he still is at least somewhat clicked in and listening to the conversation, but not bothering with offering his own thoughts. 

He isn’t even sure what his own thoughts consist of right now. 

When she finishes describing everything that she and Tony already went over, Rhodey’s expression is grave but accepting as he runs a hand over the bottom half of his face. “And you’re absolutely, totally sure about this?” he asks again, as if asking for one last confirmation will give a different answer than the three affirmations before it.

But Helen just sighs. “Completely positive.”

They both look at Tony. He gazes up at them, his expression still determinedly blank, trying to keep his breathing as regulated as he can.

For once in his life, he lets the silence stretch without attempting to fill it.

He doesn’t even know what he’d say, if he thought his voice strong enough to speak.

“I’ll let you two have a moment to talk,” Helen finally says quietly, exits the lab with soft words of checking on how Peter’s operation is going, and leaves them alone.

Once she’s gone, Rhodey moves to stand in front of Tony’s chair to block the ever unchanging computer screen, purposely shielding the DNA results from Tony’s view as his arms cross over his chest. The lab is completely empty of people save for the two of them, every single sound electrifyingly loud, from the creaks of Rhodey’s leg braces when he shifts his weight to the distant beeps of far off machines, as if murmuring to themselves. 

“What do you need to be okay right now?” Rhodey asks softly.

Tony shakes his head. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

Rhodey pauses for a moment, looking as if he’s trying to make a decision for him. Tony’s aware of his gaze tracing the lines of his defeated posture, scanning him wordlessly. But then he just steps a little closer, uncrosses his arms, and says, “C’mere.”

Instantly, Tony lets himself pitch forward. His head meets Rhodey’s stomach, the material of his t-shirt soft against his forehead, and lets his eyes slide closed, the physical contact more of a comfort and reassurance than any words able to be exchanged. The warmth radiating out of Rhodey’s body and the familiarity of his smell is all Tony wants to focus on right now.

Rhodey’s right hand comes up almost automatically to cup the back of Tony’s neck, his left weaving into his short hair and easily taking on the weight Tony leans into him. The action is instinctive from the practice and familiar from the years, and although they haven’t done this in a long time, the resistance of Rhodey’s abdomen against his head and the feel of his hair pushed up by the shirt’s material is so ingrained in Tony’s mind it’s like no time has passed at all. There’s no romance in the action, but it holds some distant kind of long-established, mutually unspoken love anyway, the platonically co-dependent kind that’s safe and understood and so desperately needed.

Tony isn’t sure how long they stay there, but neither of them move, neither one of them even say a word. The lab is silent except for the sounds of their breathing and the occasional beeps or whirs from the equipment. Time seems to slow for a long moment.

Tony buries his face in Rhodey’s shirt and lets out a single, shaky breath.

***

Peter’s out of surgery about an hour later, and Tony and Rhodey find themselves sitting in his room, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest and trying to ignore the thick, snowy white bandages wrapped around his midsection. He’s incredibly still in the hospital bed, his hair mussed and eyes closed, still knocked out and likely to stay that way for a few hours more. He’ll be fine, the doctors say, once he’s had time to heal. 

Tony sits in a chair at Peter’s bedside, his elbows on his knees and fist supporting his chin. Rhodey’s been pacing the room on and off for a while now, occasionally pausing to look at the two of them and shake his head with a sigh before resuming his restless movement. It’s just the three of them in the room at this point; in the beginning, nurses came at regular intervals to check on the kid, but now they’ve tapered off, and their visits are fewer and farther in between. 

With just them in the room and with Peter as far under as he is, Tony shamelessly stares at the kid, studying his features, taking him in the new light Helen’s casted over the two of them. The beeps of the heart monitor and the hisses of machines fade into the background, and Tony just props up his chin on his fist and studies. He’s never searched the kid like this before. There was never a reason for him to, and as much as Peter’s face is ingrained in his mind and as well as he knows nearly every expression the kid has to offer by this point, it’s something different to sit here and just watch him like a parent watches their newborn- with the hesitant, confusedly eager wonder that leaves them staring at their child’s face for hours without even a concept of the time passing as it is. 

And the more he looks, the more he realizes why Peter’s always looked so damn familiar to him. 

The swoop of the hair, the angle of the jaw, the slope of the nose, are all abruptly apparent, and incredibly commonplace. Tony can _see himself_ in Peter. He recognizes the features as the same ones he sees in the mirror. 

It’s mildly terrifying, but more just absolutely astonishing, like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time after feeling it’s warmth all along, never knowing where it came from until one day, it made sense.

He only realizes Rhodey’s standing behind him when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder, warm and heavy. Tony doesn’t look away from Peter, his eyes still tracing the lines of the kid’s face, until his gaze steadies upon Peter’s closed eyes, his lips parted and expression something like stupefied. 

_”I have a son,_ ” he whispers, his voice impossibly soft.

“I know you do,” Rhodey says, and squeezes Tony’s shoulder gently. “What’re you going to do about it now?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“I know you don’t,” Rhodey says. “But you’ll figure it out.”

“You sound a hell of a lot more confident than I feel.”

“You’ll get there.”

Another pause.

“Rhodey?”

“Yeah?”

“How am I gonna tell him?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a series under the same name, likely to have several more works following what happens after this one and seeing where this concept takes us. If you'd like to see more, please subscribe to the series or drop me a comment here to let me know!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and have a lovely day! <3


End file.
